


Fury is the King's Mistress

by skysonfire



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Commissioned fic, Dominance, Elves, F/M, Mirkwood, Oral Sex, Running Away, king thranduil - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6566044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire





	Fury is the King's Mistress

She is a star in fury, primed to set fire to the world. She grows tired of the heavy quiet of the wood -- the serenity against which her heart struggles. She wants him to fight her, and then she means to ghost away. She wonders where the wind will take her and if he'll even notice she's gone.

The moon drenches all with its white light and she works her way under the soft embrace of the spun silk that drapes her bed. She breathes in the heaviness of the air, turns onto her back and thrusts her arms above her head in frustration. 

It's only half a heartbeat before she recognizes that he is already there, looming above, his large hand with its powerful grip bracing her wrists hard against the pillow.

His eyes are aflame; his face stoic, and she feels suddenly exposed as though he knows her thoughts and plans -- her intentions to go as far as she can.

"My lord," she states, her voice tinted with a dissonance that translates challenge.

"Your lord, indeed," he repeats, his golden hair falling about her face, cloaking her expression so that she is hidden from the world, so that she is nothing but his.

"Do not insult me," he goes on, leaning the flawless flesh of his face down and against her neck. When his mouth touches the tender skin behind her ear, he is ice and power. He is smooth and terrible, and she realizes that she holds nothing against him. She begins to shake.

He uncovers her and she reaches for the satin laces of his tunic, but he slaps her hands away, returning them back onto the pillow above her head. The defined shine of his eyes translate to her his direction. He is her king, and the king takes his will.

Her breath catches in her throat as he rips open the delicate shift that she wears. Tiny bits of the spun fabric dance in the air from the force of the trauma. She pushes her backside into the bed and arches slightly toward him as he kneads up on the soft flesh of her waist, over the skin that covers her ribs and across the peaks of her breasts. He bends to mouth at her nipples, his teeth pulling at the tender nerves, eliciting a sensation that encourages her eyes shut and her jaw to slack.

He pauses long enough to fondle his clothes loose and reveal himself to her. He is lean and defined -- so hard and vital, and she wants to touch him, but she remains how she is bid. He molests her body with his eyes and she watches his grip swell when he moves her legs apart, her sex within melting and shuddering for him.

Overcome, he slides his arm under her waist to bring her hips upward, and he plunges his tongue inside of her, his lips tugging and sucking at her desire.

She gasps as he runs his tongue over her again and again. Her back burns against the bed and he forces her over onto her belly. She pushes back against him, her heart galloping wildly as she waits for him.

He bends over her and pulls hard at her hair, wrenching her head back.

"I will not allow it, do you understand?" His voice is a low simmer in her ear and she bites her lip to mask the smile that threatens to creep in. 

"Yes, my lord," she responds, using a pitch that communicates permission.

He pushes her head down and presses on her back as he sets himself between her legs.

It takes him only the slightest force to sheath himself inside of her, but when he does, he pumps her so hard that her elbows burn from the friction of her braced position. She cries out as he brings her to the brink of pain -- his withdraw so severe and his push so hard.

She raises her head and turns to catch a glimpse of his work. His brow is a dark, focused furrow and his look is colored in a way that paints his sky eyes black with yearning.

He pushes her head down once more and strikes her hard on the hip. She exclaims and her pleasure builds; there is a ringing in her ears.

"You cannot," he murmurs, his tone less guarded.

She feels the brush of his hair on her back. Her fury, a shadow.


End file.
